Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Remembering Henry Brownrigg

HENRY Brownrigg died at his London home on December 22, 2016, as he was trying to get  into a car to go to his sister’s home for Christmas. As his nephew Christopher Lindsay,who held his hand at the time, told me the next day, his heart just stopped ticking and in another moment he was gone. This year-end trip to his only sister’s place was quite routine for him: Henry once told me his sister’s home used to eat money all the year round and then at the end of the year, it came alive as all the family members came together to celebrate Christmas and New Year.

He was ailing for some time, with a liver disease and a few weeks ahead of his demise he had undergone a surgery and came back home cheerfully, and in the next few weeks he spent much time reading and reviewing a book on politics and economy that I was writing. His comments were extensive and in depth that I think the ideas he had set out in those emails might be enough for another book on the subject.

Henry was highly knowledgeable, helpful to others, and he remained optimistic and witty about life even in the trying times. He was a liberal, a supporter of British Labour Party, and a democrat who remained steadfast  in his commitment to an open society. He responded to the developments in the world around him in a passionate way and I remember the night of the Brexit vote he kept himself awake late into the night and as the outcome became clear his  immediate reaction came in three words: ‘Oh, my God...!’ He was extremely well read, had travelled all over the world and had personal contacts with people in many continents. He told me a few weeks before his death that he was working on a few projects including a coffee table book on his collection of photographs of Kerala churches, a research project on some aspects of the Geniza records even as he was reading a few books that caught his fancy.

He never took his scholarship and academic brilliance seriously, though he had written scholarly articles on Kerala history in the South Indian Journal of History that came out from Kerala University in Trivandrum and also gave lectures at places like the University of Pennsylvania on topics of his life long interest. He was a highly rated expert on history and that was one reason why he was a guest at the 70th anniversary memorial service on the D-Day at Normandy  in France, a battle in which his father had served as a captain of a battleship of the Royal Navy.  

I became friends with Henry almost a decade ago when I was working on the European tombs and other heritages on the Malabar coast that date back to many centuries. He was at the time Kerala representative for the British Association for Cemeteries in South Asia (BACSA) and he sent me lots of material  that he had gathered. His deep contacts in all these places were unbelievable--once I was wondering how to locate a small gravestone of a British soldier who had drowned to death in river Chaliyar in the interior of Nilambur forest early in 20th century and then he told me he had been there and had all the details of the gravestone.

It was a pleasure to work with Henry on matters of mutual interest, and luckily we had quite a lot of common interests. He had toured Kerala criss cross for many decades and had visited and photographed many temples, churches and mosques over the years. This way, he was a chronicler of the changing times and cultural practices in Kerala landscape. Most of these old places of worship, many of them built side by side in a display of the traditional camaraderie among the region’s various faiths, had quite a lot of common features from an architectural point of view. Often they were built by the same architects or thatchans who served the local kings who had Muslims, Christians, Jews and caste Hindus as his prominent subjects. He had taken many photographs of Christian and Muslim places of worship that were remarkably similar to the Hindu temples in a wonderful display of this cultural symbiosis that was the hallmark of Kerala history for a long time. (See accompanying photographs of two mosques in Malabar with traditional Hindu temple features--from Henry's collection.) Now that many of these older places of worship are being pulled down, and modern monstrosities taking their place, Henry’s own work might be one of the staunch reminders of this great Malayali heritage, now sadly being lost to our own collective memory in an age of deliberate cultural exclusion and religious bigotry.

I think Henry was aware of this aspect of his work and he acutely felt the significance of cultural links between peoples and nations. In India he had seen how communal politics could play havoc in a society known for its peaceful ways. A week before his collapse at his home on November 15 which took him to a hospital for three weeks, Henry wrote to me as follows, when he was reading a history of Calicut  by historian Dr MGS Narayanan:

R.[a mutual friend] certainly agrees that Narayanan, though still probably the most prominent historian of Kerala, has moved to the right and is giving de facto support to the BJP.  So I started reading the book with a critical eye, and found it less biased than I had feared. I agree with you that he underplays the Christian role, but arguably Christianity was the nemesis of Calicut which never fully recovered from Portuguese suppression of Arab trade and the consequent rise of Cochin. MGS accepts the early role of Buddhism and Jainism - for instance that the Thiruvannur Temple was adapted from Jainism to Saivism in the C11th, as is reflected in the apsidal form of its srikovil. He is also quite good on the Kuttichira mosques, debunking the suggestion that their architectural similarity to temples means that they might be Malayali versions of the Babri Masjid. And he goes out of his way to make the point that the strong Islamic presence in Calicut can be attributed not just to the Cheramen Perumal legend but certainly to the mutual benefit of of international trade. So Hindu-Muslim Calicut was a prototype for a tolerant inclusive India.  Surely this is not the sort of message which the BJP is anxious to hear.”

This note alone is sufficient to show that Henry was a great friend of Kerala and also of India and acutely aware of its secular historical and cultural roots. His love affair with this country started in the mid-seventies when he first came here as a representative of the Anglo-American Gold Company which used to own many gold mines in various parts of the world. It was the days after the Emergency in India and Morarji Desai was the prime minister. Henry used to tell stories about the gold love in India and the illicit trade that became hectic during those days of Gold Control Act. He once took an adventurous trip in Dubai, going blindfolded to a dhow that was involved in smuggling of the precious metal to India. He was furious about a London newspaper which had promised to publish his experiences and instead went to town with the story attributed to someone else in their desk. His article published in 1982  in the company journal Optima was an excellent piece of writing on gold in India--its role in the country’s ancient culture and history, the legends connected with the yellow metal and the peculiar aspects of trading in gold in the small shops in Rajasthan and the big malls in Mumbai.

Henry came from an upper class family in UK -- his father retired as an admiral in Royal Navy and then served as chairman of an independent television channel. After public school, Henry went to Oxford where he was an office-bearer of the Oxford Union in the early sixties. He told me about the evening they hosted Malcolm X, the revolutionary black leader from the US, at Oxford Union debate and the dinner they had together. It was one of the last public appearances of Malcolm X as a few days later he was shot dead back home. Henry had kept a photograph of the Oxford Union leaders with Malcolm X and among them was writer Tariq Ali, who remained a life long friend of Henry, like many others from every part of the world.

Henry refused to write down his own thoughts but his letters and emails that he fondly wrote out on a regular basis are so rich in ideas and images that bring out the intellectual brilliance of this most affable of human beings who will be missed by all those who knew him.

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Malabar: Christian Memorials volume two release in January

The second volume of the book, Malabar: Christian Memorials, which covers the area from Wynad to Travancore, will be released in January 2017. This is a sequel to the earlier book with the same title, that dealt with Kannur, Tellicherry and Mahe, and published in February 2012.

Both books were researched and produced by New York social anthropologist Dr John C Roberts and Calicut-based journalist N P Chekkutty and published by South India Research Associates (SIRA), a voluntary network of scholars and genealogical researchers. This is the third book of genealogical research from SIRA in the past five years.  

The present book deals with both European colonial legacy as well as the local Christian society in Malabar and has details on thousands of burials based on meticulous research in cemeteries, church burial registers and archival records.  It covers English, French, Dutch, Portuguese and other European burials as well as of local denominations and covers all major towns and colonial outposts like Calicut, Malappuram, Palghat, Cochin, Alapuzha, Kottayam, Quilon and Trivandrum. 

The 300-page book has an extensive collection of rare photographs in an eight-page colour section. It also has a number of pen portraits of important individuals as well as a user-friendly index that will help researchers find the burials with ease.

For those who book in advance, publishers offer attractive discounts. For details, write to  

Thursday, November 24, 2016

The Accidental Peacemaker: The Life of Tom Jeffords in the Frontier

Thomas Jonathan Jeffords played a key role in the historic truce between the Apaches and US Government in 1872. His life inspired the novel, Blood Brother, and hollywood movie, Broken Arrow. A tribute to the man on his 100th death anniversary.

The General, as usual, was in high spirits--he was a veteran of many battles, and had lost his right arm in one of those. He was a man with a flowing dark and silver beard, his eyes piercing into your depths. His assistant,  the lieutenant, was tall and soft spoken and he had served the General for years as aide-de-camp. He too would lose a limb--his leg amputated when an unruly horse threw him off, crushing it. He was silent and observant; he often kept writing in the notebook hidden in his breast-pocket.

The General kept talking about this mission, a mission of peace from the President, and also from God. General Oliver Howard was like that --he was known the Christian General in the Army and every time he spoke, he loved to quote scriptures.

Tom remembered his first meeting with the General. He was just back from Apache lands, serving as guide to a military patrol for 27 days. They often asked him to help, as he knew the place like the back of his palm, doing business in those parts. It was no easy business, the Government troops had been locked in fierce battles with Apaches in that vast and wild zone for a decade. White men were legitimate target for rebels and he had lost men in the days he ran the stagecoach service from Fort Bowrie to Tucson, the line going through rebel lands. He never really wanted to spend his life running stagecoaches through those inhospitable hills and valleys where death lurked, but then the  Butterfield company people came with offers that were irresistible and he had nothing particular to do either. So he took it and in the next 16 months counted 14 bodies of his people. And on his body, a few arrows.   

That was when he decided to take the bull by the horns. Thomas Jeffords was a man of action, and never afraid of anyone; not even the fierce leader of Chiricahua  Apaches, the six-foot warrior chief Cochise, who moved like a bullet on a swift horse --his gun blazing. Tom jumped onto his horse, slung his rifle across the shoulders and galloped on--he knew where to find chief Cochise after his raids, enjoying Apache dances and feasts in the company of his wives and fighters, and approached the camp in full view of everyone, his progress deliberately slow and steady.

That was how he became friends with the rebel chief. Cochise was a brave man, a great leader of his people. He liked  the ones he thought brave and straightforward. There were none among  the whites he had known, and he believed treachery was their way of life. He had lost his father to their scalp-hunters, his brother and father-in-law taken prisoners and killed, hundreds of his people murdered and his followers driven from place to place in the lands where they had lived in peace for centuries until the white men came with their guns and greed.

It was Tom’s personal peace mission. He only wanted to be left alone, riding his horses with the stagecoaches in tow through these lands. He was doing no harm to anyone, he was only carrying letters and food and other things to those people going west-- in search of gold and silver and a new life in those frontiers, opening up. Cochise listened to him and his pleas, as the Apaches in their war paint and their women listened, wondering what their chief was waiting for, why not finish him off without wasting time?

But Cochise wanted to talk, and he was looking for a man to talk to--somebody from the whites who could understand him, his people, their life. They had lived there all their lives, they had no quarrels with these men who came to rule the country, but they cheated him and treated his people badly, and he remembered the treachery they played on him, when he went to Fort Bowrie with his family to help the Army find a boy on the ranch, who had been missing. They suspected he had taken him hostage. But he had never taken the boy, he had no quarrels with the Americans, his troubles were with Mexicans. He thought he was going to the fort as a friend, as chief of the great Chiricahua Apaches, but once inside, he saw he was a prisoner.

But they had underestimated him. He was chief Cochise and their forts and guns would not stop him. As he jumped from his seat and rushed out tearing the canvass sheets with his knife, and disappeared, their bullets failed to touch him. He was the son of those woods and hills and canyons and unbeatable in his elements. The Army hanged his brother, killed his followers, tricked Mangas Coloradas, his father-in-law, into their camp and took his life...How could he, Cochise, accept all this and not hit back, take his revenge? How could he spare anyone?

Tom could see the point. He had seen how the newcomers treated the natives, from the days he was running steamboats in the Great Lakes up north soon after he left his parents’ home in Chautauqua in New York. They were nice people, his parents, very religious and some of them Quakers and preachers who faced difficulties for their beliefs, but he left home early as a boy. He was a man of the wild and tried his luck far away in the west. He tried running boats up and down the Mississippi where they called him Captain Jeffords, and sold wares in Apache lands. He was Army courier during the Civil War in those deserts of the west. He loved to be left alone, do what he liked to do and thought the Indians too had the same rights as he had. And the white people never liked it and most of them thought he was queer and some called him the dirty Indian lover. So he sat there enjoying the mules meat and the Indian drinks Cochise offered,and by the third day they were two great friends, never to be separated.Some said they had become blood brothers, their friendship consecrated in a rite of mixing blood.But Tom never spoke about it, nor did he try to dispel rumours.

The General had come from the Capital, as envoy of the great father in the White House to the rebels, to offer them the olive branch. He had spent many weeks travelling from fort to fort in the deserts, looking for a way to meet the elusive Indian chief. He had sent word through emissaries, expressed his readiness to negotiate a new era of peace.  

Lieutenant Joseph Sladen, his aide-de-camp, told him about the “mysterious white man” who was blood brother of Cochise, who could make the General’s wish come true. General Howard lost no time and there he was face to face with Tom, the man in his early forties with a long red beard and a carefree look.

Sladen’s notebook and General Howard’s letters home to his wife have left details of everything that happened in that historic trip. Tom himself later described his meeting with the General at Fort Tularosa in New Mexico on the evening of September 7, 1872. The General was in earnest, he held his spectators in awe with his aura of greatness and bravery at places like Gettysburg.  But Tom was tired, keen on the whiskey that flowed in the dining hall. He knew what the General wanted, and he had run similar errands for the army -- two years earlier General George Crook and Indian affairs chief Nathaniel Pope had asked him to persuade Cochise to come to the camp for talks, and he had been offered 2000 dollars for his efforts. He spent weeks looking for Cochise and caught up with him in Canada Alamosa. But Cochise refused to come -- he did not trust them. Tom returned with his message but some people said he was lying, he had never met the Indian chief. Tom did not get his full pay.

So he thought it was better to keep out of this trouble, again. He told the General he could never persuade Cochise to come, but then, added, “I can take you to him if you so wished...”

He never expected the General would accept it; not many would. It was madness going into the wild, into the rebel lands. And most did not even see the need for talks. Finish them off, bring in more Howitzers, they said marvelling at the way the Indians fled when the big guns were first brought in. But General Howard was a different kind of man. He said, ”Yes, we will go to him” and without an escort, as Tom suggested.  

Both knew it was a gamble, fraught with huge risks. Both sides also had misgivings about each other. General Howard had been warned about Tom. "We were warned that he was a suspicious character,” Sladen wrote. Some senior officers said his dealings with Cochise were suspicious, that he was believed to have furnished Cochise with arms and ammunition...

Tom too had his misgivings."I was prejudiced against him on account of his well known humanitarian ideas, and, to my mind,  posing as a Christian soldier,” he told a historian years later.

But both changed their views of each other. Tom said he held General Howard “above all other men for honor and bravery.” And the General, on his part, recorded that “I did not reject the services of a brave man like Jeffords who periled his life to make peace because of slanders not proved...”

The General and Lt.Sladen had started their journey from the Capital on July 10, reaching Pueblo in Colorado by train and from there they had reached Santa Fe by stage-coach and then Fort Wingate and Fort Apache on horseback, finally arriving at Fort Tularosa on the desert outskirts on September 4. They had crossed “hills, valleys, crags and canyons.” At Tularosa, the General’s horse stepped into the quicksands as they crossed the river and he jumped into the water to save himself.

Now it was time for the final journey, into the mountains where Cochise and his bands lived. They set out on Friday, September 13. Towards the end of the journey, a team of five -- the General, Sladen, Tom and two Apache guides, Chie and Ponce, both closely related to Cochise.

The General was in high spirits, but Sladen recorded what was uppermost in everyone’s minds-- the dangers they were exposed to. The Apaches with their  poisoned arrows were watching them from every hill, every rock, every canyon on the way. They were moving, unarmed, in the realm of a person who had killed more than 5000 Americans --almost half of Arizona’s entire white population -- in his dreadful decade-long campaign of retribution. Even Cochise recognised this when, later on, he commended the General for the bravery shown in this journey which would have cost him his life.

They travelled for 16 days and on 29 September reached the eastern flanks of the Dragoon Mountains, a vast and arid region full of rocks, where Cochise and his Chokonen band were stationed then. Ponce and Chie communicated with their brothers through smoke signals and they were allowed to move in, crossing the Middlemarch Pass the next morning.

They moved into the interior of the mysterious mountains and  then Chie said he would go alone and announce their arrival. The team waited for a long time until they saw Chie return with two boys on a single pony who bade them follow in their trail. They reached a camp where they saw many men, women and children, but  no Cochise. He would meet them the next day, it was announced. The next morning, October 1, they were taken to another spot in the rancheria, a natural fortification protected by huge rocks, where they met the chief, “a six foot-man as straight as an arrow.”

That evening, the General returned to the Fort Bowrie to instruct the forces not to harm any of the Chokonen bands returning to join the peace talks. Sladen and Jeffords stayed back in the camp. The chief offered them dinner, which Sladen happily enjoyed, realising hunger gave real taste to food.

After dinner, as they were smoking, Tom asked Sladen: “How did you like the meat?”   
“Well enough,” Sladen said, ”though it seemed rather coarse and tough for antelope, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was rather coarse for antelope,” said Jeffords,”but it was good enough for old dead horse, and that is just what it was...!”

The old chief, however, wanted to offer antelope meat to his guests. For lunch, he sent one of his men to hunt down an antelope and he took off with his gun, but returned empty handed, driving the old man into a rage. “His face flushed in anger, his keen black eyes flashed,        
and his voice rose to a high key, and the returned hunter arose and slunk away like a whipped cur.”

They spent the nights under the sky. “Spreading out my blanket,” Sladen wrote, “I lay down upon the steep hillside, moving here and there a stone a little larger than the rest, as it made its projections uncomfortably manifest in my back...I lighted a pipe, and wrapped myself in my blanket against the piercing cold of the mountain.”

The negotiations continued for two weeks, and finally the declaration of peace was made at a huge rock called the Council Rock, in the presence of military officers from Fort Bowrie as well as the chiefs of various Chokonen bands under Cochise. It was an oral treaty between two honorable men, nothing written down, as “the Indians had a singular dislike to seeing any writing done.They thought there was bad medicine in it for them and did not conceal their objections to it.”

Thus the peace treaty was born, a decade long hostilities came to an end, and the Chiricahua reservation was created for the Apaches, and Jeffords appointed as the agent to take care of their affairs and report back to the government.

Then the General and his loyal lieutenant left, promising to send up provisions for the people in the reservation so they will no longer have to go on raids-- Jeffords was left behind to take care of the implementation of the terms of the treaty. The General was home in November after six months in the deserts and mountains.  

It was the turn of Tom to hold onto the tenuous strings of peace. He was made agent, as Cochise insisted. He trusted no one but Tom among the whites. And the whites hated him for that very reason--he was an Indian lover, a traitor. The military disliked him, they thought it was easier and better to wipe these people off the face of earth than to feed them.  

The Apaches had called in all their roaming bands to the reservation, to live in peace as their chief ordered. Tom was to supply their weekly rations, but stocks were running low. He tried to get supplies on credit; when shoppers asked for payment he rummaged his own pocket or funds. He wrote to the General in desperation who took steps to get things moving.

Keeping the Apaches in peace was not easy. They sneaked out south, into Mexico for plunder, and bought contraband liquors with the money thus gained. They were unruly, and some of them were not happy with the terms of the truce. Only the iron will of Cochise held them in check.

And Cochise was a dying man. He was now old, his body weak and feeble, the discomfort in his intestines was growing. He knew his time was short. Tom went to meet him, and the old man asked as he took leave, ”Do you think we will meet again?”
“Unlikely,” Tom said, “you may not survive another day...”
‘Yes, tomorrow morning it will be,” the chief said, “but we will meet again...”He said, his finger pointing to the skies. “Good friends never really part...”

And the next day, June 8, 1874, he was dead. The wailing of his people was heard all over the mountains. He had chosen his successor before his departure, his son Natchie, and told them to stick to peace and go by the advice of “Red beard”, as Tom was known among his people.
The funeral was a private affair, Tom the only outsider to witness it. It was their custom to burn  clothes in honor of the departed soul, and many burnt their best clothes as they bid farewell to their chief. His body was taken in a procession to the deep canyon in the mountains, his belongings thrown into the deep, then his hunting dog and his horse, followed by the chief himself. Where did they bury him remained a secret --Tom took it to his own grave.

With Cochise gone and tensions mounting, the tide was turning against Tom: The Apaches continued their raids to the south and Tom was accused of encouraging their depredations, and Tom knew it was not in his powers to stop them, even Cochise had been evasive on these raids, he said he never had a truce with Mexicans. The government officials were never friendly, his supplies delayed and in deficit, and in 1876 the beef ration was cut. The Indians became restive and two of them got killed in a fight and then came an attack on a ranch and murder of two others and all hell broke loose. Two Indians had got drunk from a bottle of bad whiskey they got from a man called Nicholas Rogers who ran a stagecoach station, on the edge of the reservation. Tom had warned him against selling liquor to Indians, but he continued his lucrative trade. Late that night the Apaches went back to Rogers, demanding more liquor. He refused and they killed him and his cook on the spot.  

The frontier press had never been friendly to Tom. They thought him a renegade, an Indian stooge. The most virulent attack came from John Wasson, editor of Tucson Weekly Citizen, who wrote an editorial titled Thomas J Jeffords, a piece so poisonous and one-sided that it later gave rise to a big fight between Wasson and a fellow editor in the town. The Citizen called Tom an “incarnate demon”, whose crimes they reeled out on the basis on the testimony of an unnamed gentleman. Jeffords was accused of being drunk most of the time, of giving arms and ammunition to Apaches on their raids and receiving the spoils, of hiding gold plundered from  Mexicans, of having welcomed with an embrace the murderers of the rancher on their return to the reservation, of refusing to arrest them for their crime, of allowing to keep a girl in the reservation taken hostage by the Indians...

The editor said they had hoped he would gather his filthy blood money and creep off to some forgotten corner and lie down to die preparatory to his transfer to an inevitable hell. “If he had killed himself or slunk away to some hidden corner of the earth, we might have passed over this frightful revelation...” he assures his readers. Calling upon the authorities to “arrest him and bring him to speedy trial,” editor Wasson concluded, ominously: “It is possible that he has lived among the savages and their worse allies so long as to have forgotten the temper of the American people.”

Tom was away in the reservation, trying to bring order in an increasingly difficult situation. He was left  with few friends, and even those who had supported him earlier were shifting their position as they saw which way the wind was blowing. The General was far away and even the state’s governor, who stood for peace in the past, had now turned a hawk. The truce had become an orphan, and Tom was left alone, holding it. In the midst of all his troubles, he wrote a reply to the Citizen's tirade, and sent it to a friend in Tucson. It was an excellent piece of writing, a balanced and yet firm rejoinder based on facts, supported by written testimony from Capt. C B Mc Clellan, commanding officer of Fort Bowrie, refuting some charges raised by the Citizen alleging the Army had serious problems with Tom.

Editor Wasson, however, refused to publish it. For him, his opinions were the gospel. However,  
Charles O Brown, to whom Tom had sent his response, approached other editors in the town and finally, T J Butler of Prescott Weekly Miner, agreed to publish it. He gave an announcement a week in advance, asserting “we know nothing of the controversy” and were not pronouncing a judgement either. He said they decided to publish the letter to “give a fair hearing to an accused man,” as justice demanded.
Wasson was enraged, and he pounced upon Butler calling him a brainless and marrowless hermaphrodite. “We will have nothing to do with him [Tom Jeffords] except to drive him to a court of justice,” he asserted defending his decision not to to publish Jeffords’ letter. He described Tom the great criminal who has been a deadly incubus on the society.

Butler responded in kind calling Wasson a person beneath the recognition of gentlemen and a blackguard with a self-conceited head. Tom’s reply along with the letter from Capt. Mc Clellan  was published on the front page of Miner on June 9.

Tom, in his letter, asserted the editorial was untrue from commencement to the end. “There is not an assertion in the article but what I can prove to be so in every particular.” Then he dealt with every single charge in the Citizen editorial, demolishing them one by one. As for the charge of his taking blood money, he said, “I wish to state that and can prove that instead of my having made money since I have been Agent for these Indians, I am poorer now than when I was first appointed”. He said he had warned Rogers against keeping whiskey in the ranch as he could be killed for it, and also had sent a written notice to him that anyone disposing of whiskey to Indians would be prosecuted. He said he could prove all his claims, but “if the Arizona Citizen would take the pains to get its information from some reliable source, I do not believe that any vindication would be necessary, so far as I am concerned.”

The accompanying letter from Capt. Mc Clellan, dated May 20, 1876, gave the lie to the Citizen’s charge that Tom had welcomed the murderers of the rancher calling them friends and had refused to take steps to get them arrested. The statement is false, Capt. Mc Clellan said. “You never in my hearing styled the murderers ‘good Indians’ or ‘friends’, but you stated to me that ‘they were bad Indians and that they ought to be cleaned out’.” He also gave him permission to publish the letter, noting “you may use this in any manner you see proper.”
But Tom’s fate had been sealed, and the four years of tenuous peace was about to go up in smoke, with another decade of bloody encounters soon to erupt. The hawks had won out, and the federal authorities had decided to exile Chiricahua Indians from their traditional grounds further away, to San Carlos, using force if necessary. San Carlos agent John P Clum had already raised a militia of ranchers to complete the task and he marched in, with his troops, and Tom Jeffords was removed as US Federal Agent on June 8.  

Tom had assured he would assist the authorities if they wished to exile the Indians away from the agency. He did everything he could, calling all the 900 families of Indians under his charge together to ensure they had moved out. But the move was a disaster. Most of the able-bodied men and their families slipped away --some crossed the borders to the south and went back to their old ways. Only 90 families reached San Carlos. Soon violence erupted again, under new leaders like Juh and Geronimo.
Geronimo soon became the most feared rebel leader after Cochise--until his surrender a decade later. Sladen recalls seeing him at the peace talks: His crafty, cruel, vindictive looks and his disinclination to deal with us made him an object of extreme dislike and suspicion, he wrote. Among the new rebel leaders were Chie, their affable young guide at Dragoon Mountains, and Natchie, youngest son of Cochise who, as a kid, used to crawl himself into Sladen’s blanket in the camp on cold nights.

General Howard was unhappy with the unravelling of all his exertions. But he was far removed from the scene and powerless to influence the course of events. He expressed his feelings in a private letter to Sladen: “Every promise you and I made those Apaches, through Jeffords, was afterwards broken by the agents of our Government. The Indians were bad enough, but I think we have been worse...”

For the Apaches, certain and irreversible doom was written into their destiny. The war continued for ten years until the final surrender of Geronimo and Natchie in September 1886. For the next quarter century, the Apaches were driven from one colony to the other, never allowed to their original homelands. From San Carlos, they were sent to Florida, from there to Alabama and then to Oklahoma, a life of misery and wretchedness, separated from their children forcibly taken away to a school in Pennsylvania. Finally, in 1914, 28 years after their surrender, the Apaches were allowed to return to New Mexico if they so wished, and most of those who survived chose to go back home, to the Mescalero reservation; among them Natchie, one of the last rebels to survive.

Tom also returned, to his lonely and nomadic sort of life, trying many things to make a living -- like running a copper mine, working as a guide, an army scout and a merchant... He was never married, though some say he had fallen in love with an Apache girl--may be one of those gazelle-eyed girls even Lt. Sladen describes admiringly: I have seldom seen a prettier picture than that of one of these young women sitting astride a horse and riding like the wind, with her colored garments and long braids streaming in the breeze behind her.

But he never said anything about it.

Nor did he care what others said. He had made many enemies, and some of the people whom he had known said bitter things about him. William Ohnesorgen was one among them. The man had bought a herd of sheep from Mexico in November 1875 and drove them home through the Chiricahua reservation, in violation of the rules. The sheep muddied water in a pool the Apaches had set up for their use,  and after a heated dispute they stoned the sheep, killing a few of them. This led to a legal wrangle between Jeffords as the Apache agent, and Ohnesorgen.  

Years later, Ohnesorgen said: I knew Captain Jeffords. He was a no good, filthy fellow...lived among those damn things [Apaches] and once in a while he would go down and haul one with him...

By 1892, Tom had moved to a barren and broken place 35 miles north of Tucson, called Owls Head. It was a mining district and he spent the next 22 years there, until his death, only rarely making an appearance in the  town. Once he was sighted on the town’s streets after a gap of four years--an event noted in a report in a local newspaper. At Owls Head he lived alone with his dogs and the mines’ workmen, in a frame house with a well, a mill site, a fine grove of saguaro cactus in the front yard and a fence around. His possessions were few and when he died, they found that he had only the barest necessities at home, besides his fine collection of minerals and a shotgun.

In those final years, he became very close to a woman named Alice Rollins Crane, a writer and adventurer, who had arrived in the place in 1887. She wanted to write a book on Cochise and made him agree to take her to the Dragoon Mountains, where the peace talks had been held. Then when she  heard gold had been struck in Alaska, she rushed there and met a Polish nobleman Count Morajeski, who had fallen on bad days. They married and soon went back to Tucson, to the evident pleasure of Tom who had been taking care of her mining properties. When news reached the town of the passing of Tom Jeffords on February 21, 1914, it was Morajeski who first reached the distant and lonely place Tom had made his home. A week earlier, on February 14, Tom had hurriedly prepared his will, leaving all his properties to John, his brother, who had accompanied him to the west.

The funeral took place the next day, a memorable farewell to a great pioneer. Most of the old timers were there and Tom's body was placed in the coffin in an excellent suit, his whiskers trimmed neatly. The ceremony was organised by the Pioneers Historical Society, where Tom was a founder member.

The town's newspapers which once bayed for the man's blood, wrote enthusiastic obituaries on the old man describing him the blood brother of Chief Cochise.  And soon, the descendants of the Apache chief were to return to their home grounds after almost three decades as prisoners and refugees in many distant lands.

And Tom went on his final journey and into an enigmatic legend. He was buried at Tucson's Evergreen cemetery and the grave remained unmarked for half a century. In 1964, Daughters of the American Colonists made him a headstone that reads:

Friend and blood brother of Cochise
Peace-maker with hostile Apaches 1872
Erected in 1964 by Daughters of American Colonists.

(My thanks to Elizabeth John Dobson Jeffords, Bangalore & Denver, for comments and valuable insight into the family's life and history.)

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Jackfruits and the Food for Global Warming Times

I WAS writing about jack-fruit the other day, for my edit page. What has jack-fruits to do with a political newspaper?

Everything, it should appear. 

Jacks are tough and they withstand the global warming, the droughts and all the vagaries of the nature that it will entail. When wheat and rice and maize whither away in the droughts -- as they do in many parts of the world today-- jack-fruits will remain a solid source of food for human beings, though most of us have forgotten the thrills of enjoying a ripe jack-fruit in the common kitchen. 

I have five sturdy trees in my small compound, all bearing fruits in the summer. The fruits are everywhere, and they hang from the trunk like udders from an old bovine. As the summer heat goes up, the mesmerizing smell of the ripe fruit spreads in the atmosphere and birds and squirrels arrive from far and wide--they make a meal of the fruits. And I gather the seeds for the rainy days. 

Still, jack-fruit is a nostalgia for most Malayalis today. Part of a lost childhood--for the middle aged. There was a time when the fruits were all consumed, even a time when thieves came to smuggle away the fruits from your yard...Perhaps, even poverty has a bright side?  

But nowadays, it is mostly wasted. This most edible of fruits remains un-cared for, and no one bothers to harvest them. There is no market for jacks and market decides our tastes. 

How times have changed and how our tastes are manipulated... 

Still, the sturdy trees are there in the compound and I hope one day the fruits will become dearer to us, once again. I am told in Viet Nam and Sri Lanka they have set up businesses that adds value to the fruits and sell them in the market. May be someone here also will think about it? 

It will be great to have the fried jack-seeds as a nice snack for my evening coffee or beer later on as the sun goes down. 

Thursday, December 12, 2013

Nilgiri Hills: A new book on European and Anglo Indian Heritage in South India

Here is an announcement on the forthcoming release of a new book on the Nilgiri Hills, one of south India's premier hill stations in 19th century. The book, Nilgiri Hills: Christian Memorials 1822-2006, is jointly researched and produced by Dr John C Roberts, social anthropologist in New York, and N P Chekkutty, senior journalist in Calicut.

The Nilgiris which became a major station for the English and other Europeans from 1820s has burials of thousands of the English, French and Anglo Indians spread over various towns across the district.

The South India Research Associates (SIRA) which carried out the two-year  research program and is now bringing out the book offers a very attractive subscription offer.

Here is the copy of the press note, pasted below:

15 December 2013

Greetings for the New Year,

We wish to announce that we have completed our two-year comprehensive survey of cemeteries and isolated graves in the Nilgiri Hills and are going on-press this month for a February 15th release.

We are printing only a limited edition of 250 copies.  The quality will equal our Malabar Christian Memorials: 1723-1990.   Nilgiri Hills Christian Memorials: 1822-2006 will be approximately 500 pages with full-color reproductions of historical images done in the Hills by Richard Barron, George Hutchin Bellasis, Edmund Lear, E.A. McCurdy,  Samuel Ponsonby Peacock and Robert Pouget.  It includes a detailed map of the location of the tea and coffee estates as well as the cemeteries.

We offer a pre-publication price of Rs. 1000 to our subscribers.  The price after release will be Rs. 1250.  Postage outside India is an additional Rs. 500.  If you wish to gift copies to anyone in India the postage is free.

We thank you for your kind support in our voluntary endeavors.

Best Wishes,

N.P. Chekkutty

for South India Research Associates

For details, please contact

Friday, August 16, 2013

In Search of European Graves in Malabar

THREE years ago, late August in 2010, I undertook my first visit to a European graveyard in Malabar, attached to the cemetery of St John’s Anglican Church, Cannanore, to see what remained of the people who ruled over India for over two centuries. Dr John C. Roberts, social anthropologist and genealogist in New York, had encouraged me to undertake this trip.  

The torrential monsoon rains had just abated, the cemetery grounds were still moist and full of puddles of water-- it was difficult to move about as the thick undergrowth clung to your feet and wild plants pulled at your sleeves. My friend Antony, a reporter with an Oman newspaper who guided me, warned me of snakes-- they lurk in the shades and better keep a watch where you step, lest you disturb the peace-loving creatures.

Inside, we could see dozens of gravestones, some of them almost two hundred years old--mostly covered with lantanas, wild plants and moss. No one took care of them and rarely someone came looking for them -- it was a depressing scene.

At the church, Rev. Leeson was courteous and he showed us the death registers that had documented the burials from 1857, the year of the revolt in north India. The book was kept in good order, the writing legible and the memorials on the church walls were impressive.

Three km away, at the centuries old Holy Trinity Church that dates back to the early 16th century when the Portuguese arrived in Cannanore, it was a different picture: The old structure had been pulled down, and a new and glamorous building had come up. The old church walls had many memorials, some of them very old, and the priest had kept all  of them in a small room behind the church. He did not know what to do with them-- they were part of the past and the past is gone. And I found them there, huge granite and marble slabs that bore elaborate writing, which were difficult to move. And the registers were also there--from 1847 and they ran into ten volumes. Difficult to read as pages were mostly torn and smudgy, and the paper quality quite poor. The cemetery was in better order, each year the churchgoers doing voluntary service to clean it up on the day of remembrance.

Then I visited Tellicherry and Mahe, two other towns that had a big European community for centuries-- both were centers of trade and theatres of war; the first a British garrison and the second a French fort; most of the European wars were played out in miniature here with rival forces lining up the northern and southern banks of the tiny Mahe river.

At Tellicherry, on a promontory that overlooks the beautiful beach, stood the two churches-St John’s Anglican and the Holy Rosary Roman Catholic-- with their centuries old cemeteries, in between.

Thanks to the intervention of the local municipality and the State Government, part of the old cemetery had been taken over by the Archeology Department and it was beautifully maintained. The grass was often cut and the wild growth kept under check; lights were put in various parts of the place. Between the memorials of the town’s past doyens like philanthropist Edward Brennan and the old magistrate Thomas Hervey Baber and his great rival the planter Murdoch Brown, I saw kids from the nearby  school playing hide and seek-- a scene that reminded me of the final resting place of that unforgettable girl, Nellie, in Dickens’s Old Curiosity Shop.  

But very little of records were left. There was nothing left at the St John’s, a church that had been under legal dispute and uncared for, for a long time. At Holy Rosary, again a new structure at the place of the old church, the amiable priest Fr. Peter Parekkattil  showed me what is left--a bunch of old books mostly moth eaten and in tatters. It was next to impossible to garner anything from them. There were old memorials, pulled down, and again they were kept in a corner room of the church, away from public gaze.    

My friend Shaji Pandyala, another local journalist who guided me in the town, took me to the earliest graveyard of the Basel Mission in a nearby village, called Illukkunnu, for long the main station of missionary and scholarly activities of Rev. Hermann Gundert and his followers in Malabar. The graveyard was in a small piece of land on the side of a hill, and it appeared practically abandoned. One could see a  few tombs hidden in the wild growth, among them some of the early missionaries and their families from Germany and Switzerland who came to Malabar, keen on missionary work.  

At Mahe, my friend Dr Mahesh Mangalatt took us to what the locals called irimees, the corrupted form of a Portuguese word for cemetery. The old French and Anglo Indian tombs were neatly maintained, and the gates were normally kept under lock and key to keep off loiterers in this town, famous for its booze shops. But the old records were all gone, and luckily, the entire French records from the church’s beginning in 1720s were recovered from an archives in southern France by the volunteers of the LDS library at Salt Lake,US, later on.

So after this initial search, I came back, depressed. Here was a key to our past--a large collection of historical documents that needed to be retrieved and recorded before they were all gone. Most of it was already gone and were beyond repair- what we could think of was how to retrieve and record what is left.

Then we decided to launch a three-year programme -- to travel to all those towns again and take photographs of the records and gravestones and memorials wherever possible, try to decipher them with the help of experts and then bring them into a book that will give a comprehensive picture of the European and Anglo Indian life in these three towns that were the first European settlements in north Malabar.

It was not easy. It was not an academic research with support of grants, but a labor of love undertaken because of our love for our past and our composite culture, with our own limited resources. There was something unique and compelling in those solitary gravestones and memorials that reminded you of a distant past, a past with all its glory and also its darker and bloodier sides; still that was what we had in our past. So we decided to take it up, before it was too late.

My young son Praful took the steering wheel of our four-seater Hyundai Xing and we took off again --with a camera. Dr John Roberts, who retired from Columbia University, and his friend Thomas Maida, an art director in New York, flew down to Malabar for a vacation and they too joined us in some of the trips. In addition to the field trips, Dr. John Roberts had to conduct extensive searches in libraries and archives-- like the OIOC records at British Library where the quarterly returns from Indian churches are kept, the IGI (International Genealogy Index) database at Salt Lake, US, and a number of university libraries with India collections. To cut a long story short, in an effort that continued for over a year, we were able to retrieve and record quite a lot--that  later came out in the form of a book, Malabar:Christian Memorials 1737-1990, now released by South India Research Associates (SIRA), a voluntary network of scholars and researchers.

We received support from many-- like Dr Rafael Moreira, historian at  New University of Lisbon, who read those 18th century Portuguese script on a set of three tombstones that lay buried in seashore sands at Holy Rosary, Henry Brownrigg of London who has travelled all over the Malabar coast in search of the old European burials and memorials for many decades, Dr K S Mathew, a Portuguese scholar of eminence in Malabar,  Dr M G S Narayanan, historian and former chairman of Indian Council for Historical Research, Abdul Majeed, the friendly librarian at Calicut Archives, P Sudhakaran, the inquisitive reporter for Times of India in Cannanore who wrote some interesting newspaper stories on our work, and many others.

So  the first volume of Malabar memorials is now out; then in the past two years we continued our work in the Nilgiri Hills and the southern parts  of Malabar--from Calicut to Travancore, and Fort St.George, Madras. The work still remains a labor of love and a purely voluntary effort. But those travels are better told in a different story.

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